


Improving your Teammates through Active Passive-Aggression

by albion



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Competence Kink, Competition, Exploring in-game dynamics through fic, Gen, Kissing, M/M, Misunderstandings, Passive-aggression, Pre-Relationship, Sparring, Training, hanzo "i'm gonna be a petty binch because i like u and i'm mad about it stop being so hot" shimada, this is actually somewhat a meta-fic about the ridiculous size of hanzo's hitboxes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 10:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7312135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/albion/pseuds/albion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jesse McCree was pretty certain he needed glasses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Improving your Teammates through Active Passive-Aggression

**Author's Note:**

> This actually started life as a short, silly drabble concerning the community's opinion of the size of Hanzo's hitboxes in-game, which then turned into a meta-fic exploring how in-game dynamics would work in canon regarding training simulations, which then turned into this. I have no idea how.
> 
> Much love and thanks to everyone on twitter who fueled this piece, and to Emry, who added many helpful pieces of advice to the draft as well as such insightful comments as "mccree das gay".

Jesse McCree was pretty certain he needed glasses.

It wasn’t that he was having trouble reading words on a computer screen, or that he was missing each one of his marks on the shooting range, or that somehow Reinhardt and Tracer had become mutually interchangeable when seen from far away.

The reason for his sudden desire to visit an eye doctor was that in his thirty-seven years of life he had become absolutely certain of one thing: that some things were possible, and other things were not.

What he was even _more_ certain of was that there was no way an arrow should physically be able to hit someone hiding behind cover.

And yet.

 

* * *

 

It had all begun during the third simulation run the group had undergone since Hanzo had joined them in Gibraltar, brows furrowed over dark eyes like the thunderclouds above a storm, and prosthetics clicking slightly as he walked for want of mild repairs.

Torbjörn had offered to take a look at them, but the man had remained stubbornly resolute for the better part of three weeks until one bright early morning in May. McCree had looked up from his egg and toast breakfast (courtesy of Lena, who made a _mean_ English breakfast that McCree had grown somewhat fond of) to see Hanzo Shimada sliding awkwardly into a chair three spaces down from him.

McCree couldn’t help but notice the way he deliberately avoided the chairs directly next to his brother, as well as the one opposite from him.

Unperturbed, Genji politely wished him a good morning, and Hanzo replied in Japanese. The sentiment was echoed softly around the table, and he dutifully accepted a plate of eggs from Lena, who was smiling enough for the both of them.

McCree had not even seen him around the base since the day he had arrived, Hanzo appearing to prefer the life of a hermit, so Jesse took the rare opportunity to study him as he sipped from his coffee mug. Hanzo ate like it was a necessarily evil, putting one mouthful in one after another seemingly without any recognition of the taste, and declining any beverage save water. He was wearing his customary yukata, but he had put both arms through the sleeves and his tattoo, which Jesse had really wanted to catch a closer look at, was mostly covered.

McCree finished his own coffee and poured himself another.

Hanzo ate in silence for a while, not contributing to the conversation, until finally he put down his fork, looked up and stared straight at Torbjörn.

The conversation ceased almost immediately, and everyone stared at Hanzo whilst simultaneously pretending not to stare.

“When breakfast is over, if you are not otherwise occupied, I will permit you to attend to my legs.” There was a pause. “…if your previous offer still stands.”

Torbjörn grinned and slammed down his mug, sending half of his coffee onto Lúcio’s arm, who leapt up from the chair like he’d hit himself with his own sonic amp. “I’d be delighted!” Torbjörn crowed.

“Oh my god,” cried Lúcio, as he dabbed at himself with a paper napkin, “watch where you fling that!”

Thankfully, the rest of the meal passed without incident, and everyone gradually dispersed back to their rooms. Hanzo took his plate and cutlery into the kitchen where Mei was on washing up duty, bowed slightly to the rest of the table, and followed Torbjörn down the hall.

McCree leaned back in his chair and threw back the last dregs in his mug. Genji, who never partook in breakfast but attended for the company, hadn’t moved from the table but was staring down the hallway. It was still impossible for Jesse to read an expression on him, but he seemed fairly melancholy.

Zenyatta, who had remained beside Genji at the table, leaned in and whispered something to him in a low vibration. Genji nodded. The omnic monk pulled a crochet hook and a ball of yarn out of his pocket and floated off, engrossed in his work.

“Something troublin’ ya, Genji?” McCree asked, when they were alone.

There was a long moment as Genji seemed to consider his words. Then he turned to McCree.

“It is… strange, I guess. To see my brother again. And in such company. I have long since forgiven him. But I know he still does not forgive himself.” He paused. “But this… this is progress. I am glad.”

“We’ve all got things we gotta atone for,” McCree replied. “And it takes time.”

“Yes. And I would not be surprised to see him engage in training with the rest of us soon.”

McCree grinned and leaned in over the table. “Well, if he’s as good as you’ve said he is, I can’t wait.”

 

* * *

 

There had been two training simulations since Winston’s recall of all current Overwatch agents. Both had been fairly chaotic and one-sided, owing to working on a skeleton crew and a lack of proper team balance. Jesse McCree, as accurate as he was, was not cut out for long range sniping.

That is, until the third training run. Everyone had gathered in the second training arena for a payload escort simulation, and McCree had finished examining his revolver to see Hanzo standing a little ways off to the side inspecting his bow, pretending not to listen to Tracer and Mei eagerly conversing. His left side was now uncovered so that it wouldn’t catch on his bowstring, and Jesse could see just how powerfully muscled his tattooed arm was.

He strolled over casually. “You know, I didn’t even hear you come in.”

Hanzo let the corner of his mouth twitch upward in the barest glimmer of a smirk. “With my prosthetics now fully repaired, I would not expect someone like you to be able to hear me.”

“Well, you’re sure confident of your own capabilities.”

Hanzo fingered the end of his bow lightly. “For someone like me, and I suspect for you also, to underestimate one’s abilities is as dangerous as walking into a fight unarmed.”

_Oh, I like this guy._

Training simulations ran with special combat vests, blunted weapons and soft rubber bullets, all designed by Winston—non lethal, but would react to a device strapped to each participant’s chest and let them know if they had been hit; yellow for a non-lethal shot, red for a kill. The participant would then head off to the time-out zone before Athena would let them back in.

McCree strapped on his vest, fixed in his earpiece and dutifully pulled a coloured slip out of a bowl: he was on the blue team, along with Angela, Winston, Mei and Genji. Since there were now eleven current members on the compound, in the interest of fairness, Zenyatta opted to sit out and observe the match.

“Blue team, Winston here,” came Winston’s voice down the comm. “Everyone check-in.”

“McCree here.”

“Mercy online.”

“This is Mei-Ling!”

“Genji.”

“Perfect. Let’s let the red team get to their start and then we’ll wait for Athena.”

McCree considered the other team. Lena he wasn’t too worried about; he knew the way she operated and her weak spots: a couple of shots from Peacekeeper would be enough to send her out once he’d gotten her with a flashbang grenade. Reinhardt’s shield would go down fairly easily once he’d filled it full of rounds, and Torbjörn’s turrets he could flank, particularly with Genji’s help. Lúcio was too fast for McCree to catch, usually, but wasn’t too threatening either if he played his cards right.

But he had yet to see Hanzo in action, and he was intrigued. He checked his ammo, cocked his gun, and lit a cigar as he watched the red team disappear to their starting position. He was ready.

Of course, it was only after Athena had commenced the game and sounded the start alarm that he realised Hanzo’s earlier comment had also been an insult.

 

* * *

 

McCree rounded the corner and nearly bumped into Lúcio, who was doing an impressive backwards wall skate away from him and shooting out blasts with his Sonic Amplifier. His eyes were deadly focused, but he was also laughing openly, teeth flashing brilliant white. McCree liked that about the kid—he was always in good spirits; always ready to help out. He fanned the hammer of his six-shooter, but Lúcio managed to dodge most of the spray.

McCree reached up and threw a flashbang at him, realising as his hand released the grenade that Lúcio was already too far away. Damn. He rolled forward in response, reloading as he went, and lifted his gun up again to take the shot—

His vest beeped red. He looked down at it, stunned, and then noticed the blunted training arrow lying a mere few feet away from him.

_Where in the hell—_

“McCree, eliminated by Hanzo,” came Athena’s robotic voice down his earpiece.

McCree looked up and scanned the rooftops. He couldn’t see the archer anywhere.

Well, a good shot was a good shot. And Genji _had_ informed him his brother was good. He walked over to the time-out zone in high spirits, planning how he was going to catch Hanzo unawares when he came back in.

His spirits quickly diminished when he was eliminated again, and again, and again, and he only ever saw the flash of Hanzo’s yellow hair scarf twice.

The blue team lost. McCree watched the post-match replay and battle stats, noting some of the elimination numbers and the participants.

 

 

 _Son of a gun_ , McCree thought. _Son of a gun_.

 

* * *

 

He cornered Hanzo later that evening after dinner—Hanzo had skipped the meal, but McCree had come out of the kitchen area and spotted him heading towards one of the storage rooms.

“So uh, good match earlier.”

Hanzo stopped. And turned around. His expression was unreadable.

“ _I_ had a good match. I am not, however, entirely sure what _your_ team was doing. It was a payload escort mission, and yet you were nowhere near the payload.”

“Yeah uh,” McCree laughed awkwardly and scratched the back of his neck, “I guess sometimes we get a bit carried away.” He was rapidly feeling attacked by the conversation.

“Your form is less than ideal, and you stop moving too often. It makes you easy to pick off.”

“What do you suggest I do, hop around constantly to avoid headshots?”

Hanzo paused for a moment, and almost seemed to be considering it. “It would certainly lessen the chances of you being hit. Which you were. Constantly.”

“Now whoa there pardner _—_ ” Jesse began, “don’t you think you’re being a bit too harsh? I mean we barely even know each other, and you’re giving me pointers _—_ ”

“I am giving you pointers because you seem incapable of avoiding death, which is not preferable in a teamwork situation. We do not need to be friends for me to critique your _sloppy form_.”

And he turned around and walked off, leaving McCree standing there slack-jawed and his ego somewhat bruised.

 

* * *

 

It was a couple of days before McCree saw Hanzo again, entering and leaving the storage room at the strangest hour. Jesse himself was heading out for a late night smoke away from Angela’s barely disguised judgement when he saw Hanzo emerging with an entire armful of what seemed like rolls and rolls of real paper, industrial sized. He didn’t even know the storage room _had_ paper.

“Woah there,” McCree called, watching in amusement as Hanzo saw him, before proceeding to turn away and walk briskly down the hall. “What’s with the goods? Didn’t think you were into rolling your own joints but hey, I ain’t a judging kind of guy.”

Hanzo stopped. And turned back around. His glare was one of the most intimidating things McCree had ever seen. But Jesse didn’t back down. He’d stared down many a Mojave Green in the Southwest before and Hanzo was no different to them. Maybe a bit more facial hair, but the expression was the same.

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” Hanzo said finally, grinding the words out, “and you are in my way. Leave.”

“Need any help? What the hell do you need all of that for? We barely use that stuff anymore, it’s all holopads and digital now.”

“I noticed. But there are certain things technology cannot achieve.” He tried to sidestep McCree, but it was difficult between the narrowness of the hallway and the fact that he was carrying what looked like half his own body weight in paper.

“Well, yeah, I guess you’re right. Technology’s great and all, but my ma always said you could never beat the strength of yer own shooting arm. Whatcha gonna do with it though?”

“You talk a lot of nonsense, for someone recruited into an organization such as this.” Hanzo glared as McCree deftly reached over and took half of the rolls into his own arms, gesturing for Hanzo to walk ahead of him.

“They didn’t recruit me for my smarts, no,” Jesse smirked. “After you, pardner.”

Hanzo sighed, acquiesced, and reluctantly started walking. “And what did they recruit you for then?”

“Didn’t think you’d be interested in the life story of a guy like me.”

“I am not _interested_. I am simply attempting to be polite. It is what Genji would like.”

“Gee, you sure know how to make a man feel loved.”

Hanzo made no reply, and they continued in silence until they reached the door to Hanzo’s quarters. Hanzo used his foot to wedge open the door, which had been left slightly ajar. He reached out his arms, waiting for McCree to hand him the rest of the paper.

“I can bring it in if you’d like, there’s no need to be _—_ ” The rolls were neatly plucked from his hands and the door was firmly shut in his face.

“Good _night_.” came Hanzo’s muffled voice from behind the door.

McCree grinned at the closed door. And then scowled.

 

* * *

 

The fourth training simulation brought only more frustration, as McCree found out that hopping around to avoid headshots only brought him the exact same amount of eliminations, but now with the added humiliation of being mocked by Lena and Lúcio at every possible moment once they’d spotted him trying out the technique.

“Hey Lúcio, did you hear about the cowboy who couldn’t tell the time? I heard he was _hopping mad_.”

“Yo, McCree, how’s it _hopping_?”

“Feeling _hoppy_ today, Jesse?”

“Shut the hell yer mouth.”

 

 

* * *

 

The sixth training simulation involved a spectacular run by Hanzo, who dropped down from a building and managed to fire four shots midair which got criticals on Reinhardt, Winston, Torbjörn and Angela, who had all unfortunately got stuck behind one another in a narrow passage. Inexplicably, nobody else seemed to be as irritated by the impossibility of Hanzo’s kill streaks but McCree.

He realised soon afterwards that it was because Hanzo was deliberately targeting him and nobody else. He was trying to aggravate him, in order to make him lose his cool, make more mistakes, waste more shots.

Even worse, it was working.

 

 

Finally, he’d had enough. According to the statistics, Genji was the only one who consistently managed to get kills on his brother, although it seemed as though Hanzo actively avoided engaging Genji.

 _That’s because he spends all his time trying to humiliate me_ , McCree thought sourly.

He knocked on Genji’s door, and waited only a brief moment before the door swung open to reveal Genji and Zenyatta, sitting on a low couch, crocheting.

“Uh, bad time?”

“Come in,” said Genji from the couch. Zenyatta, who for some reason was wearing a knitted sweater embroidered with little cats, nodded politely. Jesse perched himself awkwardly on the end, trying not to stare at master and student deftly working the coloured yarn.

“What do you need, McCree-san?” Genji asked. He wasn’t even looking at what he was doing, but his fingers were moving quickly and the stitches were abnormally neat.

Omnics.

“It’s uh, it’s kinda embarrassing actually,” McCree finally admitted, scratching the back of his head. “It’s about Hanzo.”

Zenyatta started humming.

“He keeps… well he keeps getting the goddamn drop on me in training, and I know he’s _good_ , but damn if it ain’t _annoying_ , because I know for a goddamn fact he’s targeting me on purpose and I can’t for the life of me figure out what exactly I did to piss him off so much, I barely even _know_ the guy an _—_ ”

He broke off mid-sentence as a strange noise began reverberating around the room. Then he realised it was the sound of Genji laughing.

“Hey, come on now _—_ ”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry McCree-san,” Genji finally managed, “it is just… this is just so typically _Hanzo_. I had forgotten how he was.”

“The hell you mean?”

“He is… well, he is not being polite, but he is, in his own way, trying to help you. He thinks he is helping you get better.”

“Helping me _—_ ”

“He is forcing you into stressful situations,” Zenyatta chimed in, in that abnormally calm voice of his. “He is testing how well you perform under pressure, and he is showing you that the more you strike out alone, the more you will get picked off. ”

_Oh. Well, damn._

“Well he coulda been a bit more nice ‘bout it,” McCree grumbled.

“That is his way,” Genji replied. “He thinks he knows what is best for people, and then he attempts to change them according to what he thinks is best. He is… difficult to be around, my brother. But I assure you he has the best of intentions. He almost always does.”

“So in order for him to stop, I have to… what, get better?”

“Or you could show him that you are more than a helpless target,” Genji said, inclining his head slightly. “He admires people who can keep up with him. He likes competition.”

Competition.

 _Right,_ McCree thought. _Well, if it’s competition he wants, I’ll give him a goddamn competition._

 

* * *

 

He spent more and more hours down in the shooting range in the basement, unloading his clip again and again and again until every single shot was a bullseye and his right arm felt like it was on fire. He moved to the arena with the training bots next, dodging backwards and forwards, rolling in every direction to avoid the dummy snipers. Then he politely requested Athena delete all of the footage, because some of the rolls involved him smashing headfirst into a concrete wall, and he really didn’t want anyone else to see that.

The days passed. McCree offered Hanzo a polite “good mornin’, Hanzo” in the hallways whenever he saw him, Hanzo mostly didn’t reply, and life went on. Winston started tracking down a new lead on a vigilante known only as ‘Soldier: 76’, and eventually Reinhardt, Angela, Lena and Genji were sent out to his last known location in Dorado, hoping to make contact.

Training was halted. The base was quiet. McCree reluctantly put the competition on the back burner, and started on his long neglected ‘to-read’ list. Hanzo was ignoring him. Whatever. It was _whatever_.

 

* * *

 

It was late, and McCree poured himself a glass of bourbon and clicked on the next page button. The novel he was currently working through was an old classic of historical fiction, according to his Ma, and the writing was deeply detailed and intriguing, but McCree had never really seen ships like the ones described in the book, and it was getting a bit tricky for him to follow. Jesse eventually closed the datapad and set it down on his desk. He was fairly certain since his increased training regime, he’d sprained something in his human arm, and Angela was still away. In her absence, he’d gotten into the habit of drinking a few shots each night to ignore the dull throb.

 _You ain’t getting any younger, Jesse McCree_ , he thought, rubbing his arm and wincing.

He also wasn’t getting much sleep. McCree sighed, threw on his hat and boots, and decided to fire a few rounds to settle himself down.

He made his way down to the basement shooting range, and stopped immediately as his ears picked up on the dull _thwack thwack thwack_ of somebody practicing. It wasn’t the sound of a gun, but of a bow and arrow.

It was Hanzo.

For a moment, McCree debated calling it a day and going back up to his quarters. Hanzo had been nothing but infuriating since day one; he was rude, and stubborn, and somewhat patronizing, and he kept humiliating Jesse with his ridiculous aim.

But something stopped him from leaving. He crept as softly as he could into the shooting range, cursing the fact he had decided to wear his boots with the spurs. Hanzo was standing in the middle of several targets placed in various locations around the room, bow in hand and quiver full of arrows. His hair was tied back with his usual yellow scarf, but he was shirtless. As McCree stared, he noticed that some of the targets were even behind cover.

Athena’s voice broke through the silence.

“Archery training simulation #78 initiated.”

McCree watched, jaw dropping as Hanzo launched himself into the air. It was like he wasn’t even human, the way he fired, leapt into the air, and fired again, pulling each each arrow from his quiver and launching them with perfect grace. The silver of his metal legs and the yellow of his hair ribbon blurred together as he moved, turning in a way McCree might have compared to a dancer, if he were a more poetic sort of man.

Hanzo finally landed once all but one of the arrows in his quiver were spent, chest heaving with sweat and breathing heavily. He had even managed to hit the targets he couldn’t see by firing several arrows midair to change the trajectory.

Jesse swallowed. For some reason, his heart was pounding.

There was the metallic sound of Athena opening up another side compartment on the range, and Hanzo turned as a new row of practice targets appeared at his left side. He raised his bow, back straight and chin lifted, and yelled out a phrase in Japanese that McCree didn’t know the meaning of.

From out of absolutely nowhere, two blue dragons appeared, mouths open as they charged at the targets, knocking them down with an inhuman roar. Jesse felt his legs give out beneath him and his ass hit the floor painfully. He sat there awkwardly, as the two _—dragons, were they really dragons—_ roared their way through the room and disappeared through the wall. Hanzo dropped to an elegant stance and bowed his head.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, Athena: “Archery training simulation #78 completed in one minute and twelve seconds, a new personal best.”

Hanzo lifted his head and addressed the empty space between them.

“I know you’re there, McCree-san. I heard you come in.”

McCree scrabbled to his feet and half debated running away, though his legs felt like they were made of rubber. Taking a step forward, he heard the distinctive jingle of his spur, and winced in embarrassment. It felt like he was walking into the nest of the pit-viper, and this time he didn’t know if he was going to walk away.

Hanzo merely stared as McCree made his way slowly to where he was standing, watching him with an unreadable expression.

“What… what on earth was that?” Jesse spluttered, when it became clear Hanzo wasn’t going to say anything first.

“Those were the dragon spirits of the Shimada Clan. They… have been an important part of my family’s tradition for centuries.”

“D-dragons. Dragon spirits. You control _dragon spirits_.”

“Yes,” said Hanzo blankly, as if it were obvious.

McCree dropped his arms to his sides. “Uh, please tell me you’re actually human and not some weird dragon god in disguise?”

Hanzo turned, and began to pluck his arrows from the various targets on floor level.

“I am human. The dragons made a pact with the Shimada many years ago. Only a Shimada can control them.”

“...Genji…?”

“Controls his dragon. Clearly, however, you have not yet seen it, given your reaction. That is strange. I would have thought...” Hanzo trailed off.

“Uh, okay, forgive me, but this wasn’t what I expected to happen when I came down here tonight _—_ ”

“I know what you expected, McCree-san. But now you must go.”

Now McCree was _pissed_. He strode over to where Hanzo was plucking out an arrow, grabbed his bare shoulder and twirled him around, staring into his face. Hanzo was shorter than him, Jesse realised. He hadn’t really noticed that before.

Hanzo met his gaze silently.

“You’re gonna give me some answers, _damn you_ ,” McCree spat. “First of all, why the hell are you so difficult? I’m trying to figure you out, but I can’t get a damn read on you. First you’re all prickly, like a goddamn cactus, then you’re somewhat decent, like you’re trying to be friendly, then Genji tells me you’re trying to help me, so I think ‘what the hell, I’ll give him a chance,’ and now suddenly you’re being all ‘I’m a mystical dragon whisperer, leave me be’, and I can’t _—_ ”

Hanzo grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him in for a bruising kiss. Their lips met just as Jesse opened his mouth in shock, and Hanzo surged forward, dropping his bow and grabbing onto the metal of McCree’s cybernetic arm. Jesse’s brain went completely blank for a long moment before he finally registered what was happening. He lifted his right hand and latched it onto Hanzo’s hair ribbon. And pulled.

Hanzo growled low into McCree’s mouth. He tasted like alcohol, and underneath _—_ the faint taste of cigarettes.

Kissing Hanzo was unlike any other kiss he’d experienced before. He kissed like he wasn’t sure how to do it; like he was angry and trying furiously to consume the other through sheer force of will.

It was really, really hot.

Finally, they pulled away. Hanzo was breathing heavily, and the sheen of sweat on his collarbones and tattoo was extremely distracting up close.

For what seemed like hours, neither of them said anything. Then McCree opened his mouth, and his lips moved before his brain could catch up. “But you never told me what you did with all that paper.”

Hanzo’s eyes registered complete confusion before his face dropped back into its usual guarded expression. He pulled away from McCree.

“If I were an assassin sent to kill you, you would be dead a hundred different ways by now.” He said coldly, and grabbed his bow, slinging it over his shoulders. He left the arrows where they lay and set off at an impressive pace up one of the walls and through the window, disappearing in a flash of yellow and silver.

McCree let him go.

Then, “what the fuck.”

 

* * *

 

August brought with it some much needed good news. The gang returned without the masked vigilante in tow, and Lena had seemed much more subdued ever since their return. McCree had asked Angela about it as she was inspecting his bad arm, and she had confided that there was almost a 90% chance Soldier: 76 was none other than good old Commander Morrison, back from the dead. As for his arm, Angela had tutted and once again reminded him of the dangers of drinking and smoking, before concluding that it was nothing more than a sprain induced by repeated stress on the muscles. She officially banned him for practicing with his right arm, complete with doctor’s note and all.

McCree had no idea how Jack Morrison had survived the explosion in Switzerland, where he had been all those years, or why he wasn’t contacting the new Overwatch. Despite it all, the thought that Jack was alive was a comfort, especially since his life had taken a turn for the disjointed.

He hadn’t seen Hanzo for almost a week since their impromptu kiss, and he hadn’t dare approach Genji about the dragons, because then that would involve him explaining how he saw Hanzo calling on them, and then that might lead to a few questions he wasn’t quite prepared to tell a highly trained ninja.

But everything was confusing, and if he was being honest to himself, he sort of missed Hanzo singling him out and sniping at him from long range.

Which brought him to where he now stood: in front of Hanzo’s private quarters, wondering whether to knock or just turn around and leave. He knew Hanzo was in there. The light was on, and he could hear movement.

The door swung open just as McCree decided to knock, and Hanzo gaped at the sight of Jesse standing there in a faded Clint Eastwood t-shirt and jeans, fist raised awkwardly in the air.

“Um, hi.”

“McCree-san,” Hanzo murmured quietly. He was wearing a loose pair of grey sweatpants and a sleeveless shirt that bared his shoulders. His hair, dark save for a few streaks of grey, was longer than Jesse had imagined it to be, and down from its customary ribbon.

Hanzo moved to close the door again, but McCree’s booted foot wedged between the door and the wall stopped him.

“I’m not leaving this time. You, me. Training arena three, the one with all the irritatin’ columns. Let’s go.”

Hanzo relaxed his grip on the door. He looked up at McCree, and _there_ , the flash of interest in his dark eyes.

_He admires people who can keep up with him. He likes competition._

“...agreed,” said Hanzo, and the corners of his mouth tugged upwards in what could have been considered a smile.

 

* * *

 

The third training arena was McCree’s least favourite, because the columns meant that he could be easily flanked by someone a lot quicker than him. He suspected an archer like Hanzo might have a similar problem, which meant it was perfect. He could keep Hanzo in his sights, and Hanzo could keep Jesse in his.

He registered the session under his name, and Athena dutifully started the recording. Rubbing his hands against his jeans to get rid of the sweat that was rapidly accumulating, McCree readied himself at his start position and checked Peacekeeper. He’d been so excited he hadn’t even gone to change his clothes, and Hanzo had only grabbed his bow and blunted arrows.

He hadn’t even tied up his hair.

“Combatants, start.”

McCree rolled instinctively to avoid the first shot he knew Hanzo would have been lining up. The arrow flew past him as he rolled and struck the column where his head had been a split second earlier.

_Son of a gun._

McCree grinned at the look of surprise and anger on Hanzo’s face, and lifted his gun for the retaliation shot.

He missed the critical, but saw Hanzo’s vest turn yellow for the non-lethal, and grinned wolfishly.

Hanzo snarled in response, and leapt up into the air for another shot, hair fanning out behind him like a deep, dark wave crashing upon the rocks. Jesse watched him like it was happening in slow motion, saw the furrow of Hanzo’s brow as he aimed, bow held out in front of him, loosing the arrow.

He was beautiful, McCree realised with a jolt. He was fucking gorgeous.

_Aw, hell._

The match ended with 12 eliminations for Hanzo, and 10 for McCree, but he couldn’t even care that Hanzo had beaten him by only a narrow margin. Jesse was riding high on the adrenaline, mind moving at a million miles per second, and Hanzo Shimada was fucking gorgeous.

Hanzo dropped gracefully onto the balls of his feet from the ledge he had been perching on, hair hanging limply around his shoulders and clinging to his forehead. The two men stared at each other, breathing heavily. McCree could feel the trickle of sweat beneath his collar and under his arms, and silently regretted wearing jeans.

Hanzo gently rested his bow against one of the concrete columns, eyes fixed on McCree’s face. Jesse grinned at him. He had no idea what was happening.

As he started walking over, McCree braced himself for any possible situation. Knees braced for impact, cybernetic arm loosely curled in a fist. Was Hanzo going to attack him? Kiss him? Shove an arrow down his throat?

“Come with me,” Hanzo said gruffly, as he strode right past him. McCree gaped at his rapidly retreating back, then hurried on afterwards.

Hanzo led him straight towards the door of his private quarters, and stuck his thumb on the security pad. It registered his access, and the door swung open. Jesse followed him in.

The main living area of Hanzo’s quarters was sparsely furnished, but as McCree stepped over the threshold he could see that it was absolutely littered with rolls and rolls of paper; they covered the surface of his desk, the floor, and were tacked up all over the walls. As he continued to look around in awe, he realised they were all covered in drawings done in black ink, often with notes done in spidery writing. There were drawings of every training arena, the outside of the Gibraltar base, the inside of the base, each with annotations in Japanese. But there were a few drawings McCree recognised as other places; there was a drawing of Japan, one of the U.S., and one of China.

“These… these are incredible, I _—_ ”

“You asked me once what I did with all the paper. This is it. I enjoy… I… I do not know the word in English.”

“Cartography.” McCree was stunned. “You’re a mapmaker.”

“I do not do it as a job, merely as a hobby. But it is calming, and intensive work. It is good for me. And useful, for plotting strategies and tactics.”

“I… _wow._ Of all things I had imagined, this was definitely not it.”

“I think, McCree-san,” Hanzo said, as he bent to retrieve some of the paper on the floor and dump it awkwardly on his desk, “that I owe you an explanation.”

“Yeah. Yeah I’d say that too.”

“I…” Hanzo rubbed at his tattoo subconsciously. For once he seemed at a loss for words. “I am… human, but blessed with skills that others are not. I can hit targets that other people cannot. It is partly because of the influence of the dragons over me. They are… very old, and very powerful. But they left me for a long time, and it is only recently I was granted their trust again.”

“Trust?” Jesse asked.

“They do not follow their master blindly, but only if the one they are pledged to is worthy of their power. I was not worthy for a long time. They left me. Rightly so. But recently they returned to me. I think, perhaps… it might have been because of you, and the people here. The challenges of training. The challenge of deeming myself worthy of their company. Being around my brother again.”

“Oh.”

“When you mentioned that Genji had not used his dragon around you before, I was puzzled. You had worked with him for a long time in the past, with Overwatch. It didn’t make sense. I asked him about it when he returned from Dorado, and he confided in me that it had been many years before he had regained their power also. It is thanks to that omnic monk, Zenyatta, that my brother came to terms with himself. And at last, I think… perhaps that time has come for me too.”

McCree really didn’t know what to say. His mouth felt like the paper he was surrounded by.

“I cannot resist a challenge,” Hanzo continued. His hair was still damp with sweat, and McCree felt the rising urge to run his fingers through it. “I wanted to… make you better. No, that is not the right term. I wanted to help, in any way I could. I see now I went about it in the wrong way. But you are… infuriating. You are skilled, but you make simple mistakes. You wear that ridiculous belt and that ridiculous hat and your boots let your opponent hear you from another continent, and yet…”

He trailed off. And stood there, awkwardly.

“Is this the part where you tell me if you had been sent to kill me, I’d be six feet under and already rotting in my grave?” McCree offered.

Hanzo frowned. “No, that is not what I was going to say. I… I think, McCree-san, that I owe you an apology.”

This time, when Hanzo Shimada reached in for the kiss, Jesse McCree was ready for it. He grabbed Hanzo’s waist, found his mouth, and reached up to tangle his fingers through Hanzo’s long hair.

Hanzo tasted of the bitter tang of tea. McCree was usually a coffee kind of guy, but if tea tasted like this each time, he could see himself growing to like it.

He kissed Hanzo, and felt Hanzo clutching desperately onto the fabric of his shirt. He kissed with the same urgency as before, but if before he kissed like he was angry, now he kissed like he was _hungry_. Hungry for something he’d denied himself for so long. If he had wanted to consume him, McCree would have let him. Hell, if Hanzo had asked for it, he would have pulled down the moon.

They pulled away from each other just at the moment Jesse felt as though he was going to run out of air, and Hanzo dropped his head against McCree’s shoulder. He seemed utterly exhausted.

“You know,” Jesse whispered into Hanzo’s hair, “you don’t need to make up bullshit excuses to kiss me, darlin’. I’d kiss you whenever you wanted. Wherever you wanted.”

He fully expected the ensuing punch to the solar plexus.

 

* * *

 

 

McCree raised his six-shooter, took a deep breath, and fired the shot.

“Critical shot on Hanzo. Hanzo, eliminated by McCree.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> What novel is Jesse reading? 'Master and Commander', of course.
> 
> Come yell with me about Overwatch at [tumblr](http://sassanids.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](http://twitter.com/hydriades)!


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